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SERMON 

PREACHED m THE 13RATTLE-SQUARE CHURCH, 

(^n t^t Snnbag snccttbing t^c ^tal^ 

OF 

HON. RICHARD SULLIYAN. 



BY REV. S. K. LOTHROP, D.D. 



iFirmness ant) ©eutlcness uniteti in tlje Cljvistian 
Cfjaracter : 



SERMON 

PREACHED IN THE BRATTLE-SQUARE CHURCH, 

Dec. 15, 1861, 
STbe ^unbag samtbing % §tat^ ai 

HON. RICHARD SULLIYAN. 

V 



REV. S; K. LOTHROP, D.D. 



|3ul)lts{)Ei Jjg Itlcquest. 



BOSTON: 

PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON, 
22, School Street. 

1862. 






In oxcluuige ^ ^ 

i9ie 



SERMON. 



Prov. xiv. 14: "A good man shall be satisfied from himself." 

A GOOD man, a man of religious faith and principle, 
has an inward happiness that never fails, a peren- 
nial fountain of peace and joy in his own heart. 
This is the simple thought of the text. In that 
search for happiness in which all engage, he seeks 
not vain shadows, but substantial, because spiritual, 
realities. He seeks truth, virtue, holiness, the reli- 
gious culture of his mind and heart ; and this culture 
— the glory and purpose of his' being — satisfies him, 
gives him peace, a happiness flowing from the har- 
mony of the soul, that satisfies the soul. 

Some have thought the idea of the text to be, "A 
good man shall be sufficient for himself and from 
himself" A man of religious faith and principle has 
an inward energy adequate to all emergencies of life ; 
a strength of the soul — the result, the product, of 
religious faith — that makes him equal to every duty, 



the conqueror over every temptation, the cheerful 
bearer of every burden Providence may impose. He 
is sufficient for himself, independent of human coun- 
sel and human sympathy. 

Both ideas are embraced in the text, because the 
one involves the other. If a good man is to be satis- 
fied from himself, he must find in himself an inward 
energy, moral strength, adequate to all life's demands, 
— an inward happiness, independent of all life's 
vicissitudes. 

As a broad popular statement, the text is true ; 
but taken in the full meaning of the words, as an 
absolute universal proposition, it is not true. There 
are limitations to be made, qualifications to be con- 
sidered. From themselves alone, or from religious 
faith alone, the good do not always derive a happi- 
ness that perfectly satisfies, or strength adequate to 
every burden of trial, every work of duty. The cha- 
racter of the soul, in its progress and development 
here on earth, is somewhat eff"ected by the constitu- 
tion and temperament of the body ; and this fact 
modifies religious truth in its application, or, I should 
rather say, its exhibition in the soul. Religion can 
no more give every soul an equal degree of ener- 
gy, independence, self-relying strength, self-springing 
happiness, than earth, air, sunshine, can raise from 
every acorn an oak equal in stateliness, beauty, and 
grandeur to the largest and strongest of those giants 



of the forests. Religion, of necessity, respects the 
individuaUty of the soul, the natural diversities in 
men's characters ; and in no attributes are these 
diversities more marked than in the different degrees 
of self-reliance, solitary, self-sustaining energy, they 
exhibit. Some persons are very dependent upon 
others, not from any weakness of intellect, not from 
any imbecility of judgment, or a consequent incapa- 
city of independent thought and action, but from the 
quickness of their sympathies, the depth and strength 
of their affections. They have great power, and can 
make noble manifestation of it, in being the first to 
enter upon some high course of thought and action ; 
yet, in the very act of such manifestation, they trem- 
ble to find themselves alone, and instinctively seek 
the shelter of some sympathizing heart. They do 
not care for numbers ; they do not seek for praise ; 
they do not crave popularity : but they do crave 
sympathy. Let but one loving and approving heart 
be near them, with them, and they can stand against 
the world. The scorn of the multitude does not 
abash them ; the menace of the powerful does 
not terrify them ; the voice of the people, though it 
be as the roar of many waters, cannot drown the voice 
of conscience which speaks in their hearts of duty and 
of right. Applause, popularity, a wide favor, shouts of 
approbation from the multitude, — they have no low, 
selfish desire for these ; but they Jiave a natural affi- 



6 



nity, an irrepressible longing, for sympathy. This 
they must have. Its absolute loss makes them weak 
as a child. Let them feel the faintest breath of its 
warm presence, and their reverence for truth, their 
fidelity to duty, become firm as a rock. Let but the 
sympathy of one kind, loving heart be sure to them, 
and they can do all that humanity demands, all that 
the diviner impulses of the soul prompt. This is the 
temperament, the original mental constitution, of 
some persons. Religion cannot change, does not 
propose to change, it. 

So there are others whose character is the ex- 
treme opposite. They are singularly independent 
of human sympathy. They think and act, as it 
were, in empty space, utterly regardless of the ap- 
proval or displeasure of others. Universal opposi- 
tion does not discourage, universal approbation does 
not elate, them. Neither the one nor the other 
can induce them to modify an opinion they have 
adopted, regret a feeling they have expressed, repent 
of an action they have performed, or alter, in the 
slightest degree, a position they have assumed and 
mean to maintain. If others agree with their opinions, 
and assent to their plans, it is well : their plans will 
be so much more easily accomplished. If others 
differ and oppose, it is well also. They are not dis- 
turbed : there is only so much more resistance to be 
overcome ; and they set themselves resolutely to the 



work. Human sympathy, if given, does not increase 
— if refused or withdrawn, does not weaken — their 
energy or abate their zeal. They do not care for it 
or ask it : if proffered, they receive it with ungra- 
cious indifference. A reserved, almost repulsive, 
self-reliance is a predominant element of their cha- 
racter. 

I have presented two extremes, — dependence 
upon, and indifference to, human sympathy. As 
both are to be avoided, it is hardly necessary to 
inquire which is the worse and which the better, — 
which makes a man most useful and most happy. 
Each has a power peculiar to itself. One gives a 
man control over himself ; the other, control over 
his fellows. One fits a man for thought, investiga- 
tion, the pursuit and ascertainment of truth ; the 
other, for action and the exercise of a beneficial 
influence. In the one case, the judgment is swayed 
by no disturbing forces. Every subject is studied, 
every question weighed, with a calm, serene eye, 
almost as if it were an abstraction, having no 
connection with surrounding interests. There is 
nothing in the heart to plead for an old error, 
simply because it is old ; or to resist or reject a 
new truth, simply because it is new. The faculties 
act vigorously and faithfully : a conclusion, once 
reached, is at once adopted ; and thereafter no doubt 
disturbs, no anxiety paralyzes, and no storm of oppo- 



8 



sition stays, or turns aside, adhesion to it. Yet little 
comparatively is done, or can be done, to make this 
conclusion lovely to others, or gain for it a wide pre- 
valence. A capacity to impart implies a capacity, I 
had almost said originates in a disposition, to receive 
sympathy and influence. No man can touch the 
emotions of others, understand their prejudices, enter 
into their anxieties, comprehend their weaknesses, 
and secure that confidence which is the basis of all 
influence, who is himself cold, reserved, unsocial, 
standing apart in the strength of an acute, capacious 
intellect, which, because it feels no dependence and 
seeks no sympathy, awakens no aff"ection and wins no 
trust. It is the heart, after all, that gives power to 
the intellect, influence to man, and happiness to his 
whole being. They, probably, have been the most 
happy and the most useful, who have loved the 
sympathies of their kind, and have recognized, not 
only the chain which binds conscience to duty 
and to right, but that also which binds heart to 
heart in links of mutual dependence and reciprocal 
aff"ection. 

These two extremes, — dependence upon, and in- 
diff"erence to, human sympathy, — and the inflnite 
variety of the degrees of each to be found between 
them, modify the absolute, unqualified statement of 
the text, and are to be taken into account in the 
application of it to ourselves or others. 



9 



Still, beneath the statement of the text, there is a 
great and profound truth. A good man shall be 
satisfied from himself, shall be sufficient for himself. 
There is a measure of independence of human sym- 
pathy which we can and must attain. There is a 
degree of weakness we must avoid, and of danger 
that we must guard against, in being too dependent 
upon it. There is a strength of individual vutue, a 
power of personal faith and lofty principle, a union 
of the tender and the firm, — of an afi"ectionate heart 
and a resolved will, — that can be reached, and, if 
reached, satisfies and suffices the soul, makes it strong, 
and happy because it is strong. As the oak, with the 
vine twining around and chnging to it, both adorning 
and benefiting each other, is a more beautiful thing 
than either the oak or vine separate ; so a character 
that combines the graceful and tender affections, open, 
receptive s}Tnpathies, with firmness of purpose and 
an independent self-reliance, is more beautiful and 
perfect than a character whose distinctive trait is an 
extreme either of dependence upon sympathy or in- 
dependence of it. This combination was one of the 
peculiar beauties, the di\-ine glories, of the character 
of our Saviour. He was gentle, tender, sympathetic ; 
susceptible, to a singular degree, of the influence of 
human attachments : yet he could stand alone with 
duty and with God, — meet, if need be, the solitude 
and suffering of a martyr. His character begins in 



10 



beauty, and ends in grandeur and power ; winning its 
way to loftiness through a host of angelic humanities. 
He could lean, and evidently loved to lean, when 
duty permitted, upon the sympathy of kindred and 
friends ; and, when required, he could stand alone, 
strong in the love of God and the power of truth. 
He could shelter, and evidently loved to shelter, him- 
self in the bosom of domestic affections, in the sym- 
pathies of dear, familiar, confiding friends ; but when 
duty forbade this, and the solemn purposes of his 
mission called, he could go forth in the solitary 
strength of his own heart, and face any storm that 
beat, traverse any wilderness that stretched beneath 
the canopy of heaven, make any sacrifice that would 
bring blessing and benefit upon the world. The 
power of Christ's character to touch our hearts, to 
win our affections, while it inspires a most profound 
reverence and awe, is to be attributed to its just and 
beautiful combination of these qualities, — sympa- 
thetic tenderness, lofty and independent firmness. 
This combination we must aim at in our characters. 
Some approximation to it we must have, before we 
can experience a fulfilment of the declaration of the 
text. To this end, we must shun the stoical pride 
of a perfect self-reliance, a cold indifference, an 
entire independence of human sympathy : for, after 
all our efforts, we are not sufficient for ourselves; 
and, if we attempt to be so, there will come, ever 



11 



and anon, yearnings in our hearts for some one 
bosom upon which we can lean, for intimate, unre- 
served communion, — some one friend not so infi- 
nite as God, not so holy as Christ, into whose ear 
we can pour our thoughts, who can tremble with us 
in our anxieties, struggle with us in our temptations, 
and weep with us in our tears. On the other hand, 
we must shun that weak dependence upon sympathy, 
and subjection to it, by which we are led into sinful 
compliances, by which the integrity of conscience 
breaks down in subserviency to public opinion or 
private entreaty, and through which the whole life 
often is wasted in habits over which our meditations 
in privacy pour a flood of inefl"ectual tears, and the 
impulse and the deske for better things grow more 
intense and more humiliating as the power to pursue 
them and strive for them becomes less strong, weaker, 
more inefficient. 

In every man's life, there are passages of thought 
and action which must be solitary ; passages of duty 
which throw him upon his own individual moral 
forces ; passages in which there can be no partner- 
ship in responsibility, as there is none in the peril of 
consequences ; in which sympathy cannot be given, 
or, if profl"ered, cannot help, and may mislead. We 
must be prepared for these passages ; and we can be 
prepared for them, only by holy faith and lofty prin- 
ciple, by a reverent and profound love of God, a 



12 



meek obedience to Christ, a stern self-inspection that 
corrects our moral perceptions, clears the atmosphere 
between us and Heaven, and permits no sophistry to 
blind our eyes to the rugged path wherein we must 
walk. Thus prepared, we shall triumph in the con- 
flict ; the sympathy of friends will not, as it sometimes 
does, add to our danger and lead to our defeat ; the 
soothing words of a mistaken kindness will have no 
power, as they often have, to check when they 
ought to deepen contrition, — no power to lead us 
to a false self-complacency, a fatal moral indolence, 
a longer dalliance with temptation : but in the silent, 
solitary strength of our own hearts we shall pile 
effort upon efi'ort, till wrong impulses are repressed, 
till pure desires are maintained, till lofty aims are 
accomplished; and then we shall understand, by a 
blessed experience, the truth of the text, — we shall 
be satisfied from ourselves and with ourselves ; there 
will be peace, that great peace of God, in our souls ; 
an inward happiness, — deeper, purer, more invi- 
gorating, more abiding, than any thing outward can 
bestow. 

If we are thus prepared by holy faith and lofty 
principle for the solitary passages of duty, we shall 
be prepared for the solitary hours of sorrow. Sor- 
row, though less solitary and individual than temp- 
tation, is yet solitary ; has its secret depths in every 
heart, which no human sympathy can reach. In sor- 



13 



row, we may lean upon sympathy more than in scenes 
of resolute action and effort ; but, even in sorrow, we 
must have more than sympathy. We must have 
faith, love, trust, an entire repose on God. If in 
those silent watches by the couch of sickness, which, 
in turn, come to all of lis ; if in those midnight hours, 
poised between life and death, when we hang upon 
the faint breathing of some friend whose breath seems 
our very life ; if in that moment of agony when we 
stand by the grave that is to shut from our sight the 
countenance in whose living light we have walked 
from our childhood ; if in that dark day when we 
return from the mourner's last errand to the house of 
the dead, and in those darker days which succeed, — 
we lean, not upon sympathy, — which may help, but 
cannot suffice, — but upon God and Christ, in holy 
faith and lofty trust, then we shall understand by 
another blessed experience the truth of the text. We 
shall find ourselves, not haggard and wasted in mind, 
morose and selfish in spirit, but with an uplifted con- 
science, with a heart tender towards others and strict 
with itself; we shall find an inward, infinite peace, 
that satisfies and abides amid the destruction of out- 
ward joys, — the peace of a pure conscience and an 
immortal hope. 

My friends, it is not by accident that I have been 
led myself, or without purpose that I have carried 
you, through this train of thought. In our services 



14 



this morning, we have ah'eady been called to notice 
the death of one, long a worshipper at this church, a 
communicant at this altar ; whose image has been 
constantly before me while writing ; whose character 
was a beautiful combination of the firmness and ten- 
derness of which I have spoken ; and who, so far as 
we can look into the heart of another, and judge, 
knew, by a distinct and blessed fulfilment of it in 
himself, the truth of the promise of the text. 

Hon. Richard Sullivan, whose funeral obsequies 
were yesterday appropriately held in this church, 
whence his body was removed to its last resting-place, 
has been so long retired from participation in the 
aff"airs of active life, and so many years have passed 
since he has been able to worship with us, that to 
some of the congregation he may be entirely un- 
known, and others may have but a faint remembrance 
of him. But in yielding to the pleasant memories 
reaching back to the early days of my youth, which 
prompt me to speak of him, I am but doing justice to 
the claims of a good man upon our remembrance, and 
service to you, in holding up his life and character 
as an example worthy of imitation. He was born 
June 17, 1779, in Saco, Me. ; where his father (Hon. 
James Sullivan, subsequently, and at the period 
of his death, in 1808, Governor of this Common- 
wealth) at that time resided. He was educated at 
Harvard College, and graduated from that institution 



15 



in the class of 1798, — of which but three survive 
him. One of these survivors told me, yesterday, that 
his college career was marked by the same pure, 
courteous, gentlemanly deportment that had distin- 
guished him through life, and by assiduous attention 
to his studies ; that he held an honorable rank as a 
scholar, an English oration being assigned to him 
at one of the exhibitions. In college, he formed 
intimate friendships, which lasted through life, with 
some of the most distinguished men of the class, — 
such as the late Joseph Story, S. P. P. Fay, and 
William Ellery Channing. On leaving college, he 
studied law in the office of his father, who, several 
years before (in 1782), had removed to Boston ; and 
he was admitted to the Suffolk Bar in 1801. In 1804 
(May 22), he married Sarah Pussell, a daughter of 
the princely merchant, Thomas Pussell ; and shortly 
after, in company with her, made an extensive tour 
in Europe. On his return, he opened a lawyer's 
office : but, relieved by this marriage from the neces- 
sity of continuing it, he gradually relinquished the 
practice of his profession ; not, however, that he 
might waste life in indolent and useless leisure, but 
that he might be at liberty to serve God and the 
community in other ways. He felt the responsibility 
of his talents, his wealth, and his social position ; and 
promoted his own happiness and honor by using 
them for the good of others. He kept up, by revi- 



16 



sion, considerable knowledge of his profession; and 
was always assiduous in the culture of his mind, — 
reading much of the current literature of the day, 
and more largely the old books, from which much of 
that literature is drawn. From impulse, and on 
principle, he w as public-spirited and philanthropic ; 
and the records of several of our most valuable public 
institutions, founded during the first thirty years of the 
present century, bear ample testimony to his services 
in their behalf It was at a meeting of gentlemen at 
his house that the project of the Massachusetts Gene- 
ral Hospital was first seriously started ; and, among 
those who aided in rearing that beneficent establish- 
ment, the labors of few were more earnest or more 
efficient than those of Mr. Sullivan. In addition to 
his successful eff"orts in obtaining subscriptions, he 
delivered, before a large audience in King's Chapel, 
an address upon the subject, replete with the elo- 
quence of a large practical wisdom, and a generous, 
humane heart. 

During the earlier years of his manhood, he took a 
hearty interest in political aff'airs, and entered some- 
what into political life. He was a member of one, and, 
I believe, of both branches of our State Legislature. 
He occupied, for two or three years, a seat in the 
Executive Council during the administration of Gov. 
Brooks ; and was an unsuccessful candidate for Con- 
gress at a time when the Federal party, to which he 



17 



was attached, was losing its ascendency in the State. 
As a member of its Board of Overseers, he was assi- 
duous in his efforts to x^romote the best interests of 
Harvard College, and enlarge its instrumentahties of 
education. He was especially active and interested in 
those efforts, made about forty years ago, to increase 
the means of theological education at Cambridge, 
which resulted in the establishment of the present 
Divinity School with all its endowments. 

Removing into the country, and residing for many 
years in the neighboring town of Brookline, he was 
among the first of those, who, nearly half a century 
ago, gave an impulse to rural tastes and pursuits, to 
the advancement of agriculture, and to that culture 
of fruits and flowers, which now, wide-spread, does so 
much to embeUish and refine life among us. Here, 
at his beautiful estate in the country, surrounded by 
his wife and daughters, he had a home, which, in the 
dignity and grace that presided over it, in the intel- 
lectual and moral refinement that pervaded it, in the 
holy love and faith that sanctified it, was the model 
of a Christian home ; and comes up to the thoughts of 
all who remember it, as near an approach to a pic- 
ture and miniature of heaven as they may ever hope 
to see on earth. 

Providence had a great lesson to teach, and charac- 
ter a severe test to meet. Death sped its shafts : that 
home was made desolate, that family circle severed, 

3 



IS 



its remaining members were scattered, property was 
diminished ; and Mr. Sullivan returned, solitary, to 
solitary chambers in the city, and to a solitary pew in 
the old church where he had worshipped years be- 
fore. All who remember him at this period of his life 
cannot but recall with reverence and admiration the 
beautiful union of gentleness and firmness, tenderness 
and manly self-reliance, which he exhibited. He was 
not gloomy, morose, complaining, but cheerful, sub- 
missive, trustful ; bearing his trials and bereavements 
with a brave, serene, Christian fortitude ; ever ready, 
as before, to be active and useful. The last office of 
any prominence or importance which he held was that 
of delegate and representative from this church to the 
Benevolent Fraternity of Churches for the support of 
the Ministry at Large. He soon became deeply inte- 
rested in this institution and its object ; and presided 
over the Fraternity, for several years, with singular 
fidelity. Kemoviug to Cambridge a few years ago, 
retiring more and more from the world, his physical 
and somewhat his mental strength very gently and 
gradually failing, after a brief illness, without suffer- 
ing, his pure spirit, at peace Avith God, with itself, 
and with the world, passed on to its reward. 

Such is a brief outline of his life ; and in this out- 
line, and in my previous remarks, you read his charac- 
ter. Pure in motive, unselfish in purpose, courteous 
in manners, firm in principle, strong in faith, tender 



19 



in affection, devont in emotion and aspiration, bear- 
in$jj the reverses of fortune and the bereavements of 
Providence w^ith noble fortitude, he was a goodly 
pattern of a true Christian gentleman. When such a 
man dies at a good old age, the order of nature, and 
purposes of Providence,. all beautifully fulfilled in his 
life and character, gratitude, not grief, is the strong 
emotion of the mind. Let it be strong in our hearts 
at this time. Deeply sensible of what we owe to our 
fathers of the generation immediately preceding us, 
for noble services. Christian lives, and their goodly 
deeds, let then* memory — that memory of the just 
which is blessed — abide, a consolation and incentive 
to our own fidelity. 



